All Rivers Run to the Sea: Memoirs (23 page)

The trouble was I loved her. Not physically or erotically, or at least I didn’t think so, but not platonically, the way I loved Niny, either. I can honestly say that the fantasies I came to know later I did not have then. Or if I did, they passed through me without a trace. I might even lie and say it was not her body I loved—but then, why did I get so excited when my shoulder brushed hers? The truth is I loved her self-assured walk and the way she ran her fingers through her dark hair; I liked the way she laughed (rarely) and the way she listened (even more rarely), and the way she glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was following her when she trotted upstairs. I loved her for herself, and to convince myself that I was capable of loving, of yearning, of living, of existing for somebody else. I loved her because she was my first love.

Of course, in those days I fell in love “for the first time” more than once. Hanna was not the only girl I loved. There was also Niny. Even when I was attracted to other girls, I couldn’t tear myself away from Niny. In time I became more lucid and courageous where she was concerned. I learned to deal with it, as the saying goes. I now know what I felt then. Love is no longer taboo, not a vague, murky sensation, but a very precise pain. In other words: Niny meant something in my life.
Naturally, she didn’t know it. If she had, I would have felt the need to leave Ambloy or later Versailles, though for where I don’t know. But for me this was no more than a kind of adolescent game of hide-and-seek, and since it was a game, innocent enough, I allowed myself to play it elsewhere as well, feigning indifference to all women, young and otherwise, that I passed in the street, in the métro, and of course in Versailles. But any woman at all could turn my head if she wanted to. How often did I feel a disturbing yen to walk up to some stranger and tell her, “Love me!” But I lacked the courage, and the experience. To conceal my confusion I wore a Basque beret that was too big for me and struck the pose of the dedicated student devoted only to his courses, the religious neophyte who loves God alone. I remember an encounter from those days. I was on the train from Paris to Versailles, sitting opposite a very fit, athletic-looking woman of about thirty. She was reading a newspaper, I a book. Our knees touched, and suddenly I couldn’t read anymore. Our eyes met. She smiled at me and I thought I would faint from happiness.

“Why were you smiling at me?” she whispered.

“Excuse me? I was smiling at you? Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“No,” I said, “not me,” and plunged back into my book, powerless to prevent the infernal dance of the letters on the page. I felt dizzy, but at the same time I was afraid she would move her knee away. I wondered how to do what I was supposed to do, what I wanted to do. Fortunately, my neighbor was persistent. “You’re in love,” she asked, “is that it?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Who with?”

I was about to say, “You,” but instead I stupidly replied: “With God.”

She must have been shocked. And exactly what I had feared happened. I no longer felt her warmth, the pressure of her knee was gone. Distraught, I ventured a timid initiative. “Stop,” she said in a hiss of pique. “I’m not God.” I had tried and failed.

Back at Our Place I tried and failed with Arlette and Rachel, Elisabeth and Rita, Denise and Fanny, though of course they didn’t know it. When one of them looked at me, I would avert my eyes. Hanna, however, may have been aware of it. Was that why she was always so completely disagreeable, why she detested me so openly? Proud and cowardly, I refused to ask her, telling myself that if she hated me, it
was her problem, not mine. But I lost sleep over her. I worried about my newly recovered religious fervor. It was an agonizing contradiction. I lived in two worlds, continuing to say my prayers, eat kosher, and study with Shushani, but in my dreams I beckoned to a finally consenting Hanna.

Nevertheless, sometimes we worked well together in choir. I suffered in secret but was too proud to say anything to anyone, and certainly not to her.

Flash-forward to 1954. One spring day I ran into Hanna in downtown Paris. I decided to take advantage of the chance encounter. We shook hands, exchanged customary pleasantries. It was six years since I had left Our Place. The “children” were scattered throughout the city and the world, flown off like birds or adolescent dreams. The choir had been dissolved. Having become a journalist, I traveled a lot, and had lost contact with the OSE people. But Hanna had kept in touch, probably through her parents. She knew everything. Remember Régine, the girl who was in love with Kalman? Well, she’s married. No, silly, not to Kalman. Kalman left for America. Binem? He’s in Israel. Rita? Australia. Suzanne got her medical degree. Nicolas was still living in his dreams. And how was she? Very well, thank you. What was she doing? Studying physical therapy. We talked amicably as we walked toward the Place de la République, the neighborhood I lived in. I was so surprised by her lack of hostility that I invited her for coffee. She agreed. I was in seventh heaven and ready to ascend to the eighth.

All at once I forgot her notorious nastiness, forgot all the women I had vainly tried to attract. I fell in love with her again, with her alone. Careful not to show it, I played the great reporter, slightly jaded, a tad cynical, a man surprised and moved by nothing. Striking a falsely humble tone, I told her about my work, my scoops—ah yes, it was important for her to know about them. No self-respecting journalist can refrain from a bit of boasting on that score. I had rarely been so loquacious. Hanna listened, or pretended to, for which I was grateful. I asked her what she was doing that evening, and she answered, “Frankly, nothing.” She had always been frank. “Would you like to go to a concert?” She hesitated for an instant, then said yes. Had I heard right? Hanna, the haughty girl who had used all the weapons of femininity to reject me, suddenly friendly? We agreed to meet at the Salle Pleyel at eight-thirty that evening. She was on time, and so was I. She was soberly dressed in a dark gray skirt and white blouse, her hair
twisted into a bun held in place by a simple pin. I found it hard to conceal my excitement; she maintained her serene composure.

I used my press card to get two choice seats, gratis. Hanna made gentle fun of me. “So, you’re a VIP now.” I protested with the requisite false humility. Hanna, unimpressed, changed the subject. We talked about Beethoven and Schubert, symphonic and choral works. I liked the program but found it hard to concentrate. Hanna listened attentively. I felt like taking her hand, but stopped myself for fear of looking ridiculous. During the intermission I tried to charm her with some unoriginal commentary on the various pieces we had just heard. She agreed with this, disagreed with that. We had a friendly discussion. The atmosphere was relaxed, almost warm. I took her arm as we went back to our seats, and she did not pull away. God in heaven, what was going on? Were miracles actually possible? The sounds of the second half of the concert washed over me, dissolving in the air. The hell with Beethoven! I would apologize to him tomorrow. For the moment I heard only the silence of the enchanting young girl seated on my right. Our shoulders touched, and at times her hair tickled my face. Hanna and me, at last. With me at last, all mine. Thank you, Beethoven, for having brought us together. Thank heaven for orchestrating chance encounters. Thank you, Paris in the spring, for inspiring so many lovers.

The concert ended, and the audience applauded. We joined them. Hanna clapped for the conductor, I for destiny. She seemed happy—my onetime nasty beloved seemed happy. I was delighted. I offered the standard—“Fantastic, huh?”—and for once she agreed. I don’t know why, but the enthusiasm of the audience seemed to draw us together. Slowly the crowd dispersed, and we went out. I asked if she was tired. No, not at all. In fact, she was rather excited. Once again I suggested coffee. I didn’t want the night to end; I wanted it to go on forever. Somehow I sensed that if we separated now, she would be forever lost to me. If I let this God-given opportunity slip away, I would regret it for the rest of my life. I pressed, carefully maintaining a detached tone. “So, do you feel like coffee?” She hesitated, then declined. “Sorry, not tonight. I have to be up early.” Her voice was so sweet and beautiful I forgot to be disappointed. “Should we take the métro?” She preferred to walk. “Where do you live?” Montmartre, near Sacré-Cœur. It was a long way, but never mind. I would have happily walked as far as Saint-Cloud, Versailles, or the end of the world.

So we walked. The night sky blinked with bright stars. Passersby
smiled at us, beggars thanked me for my generosity, however modest. At last, near the Lapin Agile, Hanna stopped in front of an immense, darkened gate (which I disliked instantly) and held out her hand. I took it and held it for a long moment. And then, idiot that I was, I managed to ruin everything. Striking a dramatic air and affecting a tone of pathos, I looked into her eyes and asked, “Why is it you used to hate me so? Why couldn’t you have been like you were tonight, so sweet and nice, so feminine? Really, I wish you could explain it to me.”

She suddenly pulled her hand away, her body stiffened, and her face turned blank. “What an idiot you are,” she hissed, “an intolerable idiot.” She tried to open the gate, but I stopped her. Since she had become an enemy again, I decided to meet her on the battlefield. “Listen, Hanna,” I said angrily, “I never understood why you hated me, why you made me suffer the way you did in Versailles. Tonight, for a few hours, I thought that was over. I thought you’d changed. But I guess I was wrong. You still have that chip on your shoulder, still treat me with contempt. If that’s the way you want it, fine. As far as I’m concerned, that’s it. I’ve had it. I won’t try to understand you anymore. I give up. I hope we never see each other again. Good night.”

And I walked away. End of story. Forever.

I was serious, and angry, determined not to look back. Anyway, it didn’t really matter. In three days I was due to leave to cover a story in Brazil, and with a little luck I would fall in love on the boat. People fall in love fast on boats, me faster than anyone else. Hanna was over and done with. Good riddance.

Except that …

The next day the phone rang. How had she gotten my number? I pictured her, so proud and superior, forced to demean herself, to go to mutual friends with some lame excuse to justify her question. I almost felt sorry for her.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s me,” she said.

“Me, who?”

“Hanna.”

I felt like asking, Hanna who? but she beat me to it: “Versailles Hanna.”

“What can I do for you?” I asked in the coldest possible tone.

“I would like to see you again.”

Right. Probably to deliver more insults. Last night wasn’t enough for her.

“Sorry, but I really don’t have time. I’m leaving for Brazil on assignment”—that sounded good—“and I have a million things to do.”

She sighed and said, “It won’t take long. Give me half an hour.”

The voice of the princess was subdued. I dug in my heels. “I can’t.”

She insisted. “Give me half an hour.”

“What for?”

“To talk to you.”

“About what?”

“About … Not on the phone.”

When I said nothing, she went on, “All right, since you insist. I want to ask you a question.”

“A question you can’t ask on the phone?”

No, she couldn’t. And it couldn’t wait. I finally conceded: “At twelve-thirty tonight in the café near the Radio France office. Okay?” I chose that café because I dropped in at Radio France every night to send my cable to Tel Aviv.

“I’ll be there,” she said, and hung up.

All of a sudden I didn’t feel like working. The wire services could supply more information than I could about the siege of Dien Bien Phu and the predictable reactions in France. Hanna’s behavior was far less predictable. What could she possibly want to ask me? To pass the time I drafted a cable, tore it up, redrafted it, and tore it up again. My heart wasn’t in it. I didn’t care about the news that night. It was all the same to me if the planet was in good shape or bad, if politicians howled or fell silent. Hanna’s question was the only thing on my mind, but I couldn’t very well send Tel Aviv a cable about that, and in the end my professional conscience kicked in. I managed to piece together an article no worse than usual. I looked at my watch. It was time. When I got to the café, I found Hanna sitting in the back. She was the only customer, apart from one man who seemed half asleep. A cup of coffee was cooling on the table in front of her. I ordered one too, and then attacked.

“So what’s your question? Do you have it in writing?”

She shook her head. “No need for that. I know it by heart.”

“So what is it?” I was still trying to hurt her and succeeding so well it shamed me.

“Well,” she said, looking deep into my eyes, “it’s this: Will you marry me?”

I would have been less surprised had the ceiling collapsed, had I
been named commander in chief of the Red Army, or had I won the Prix Goncourt for a book I hadn’t yet dreamed of writing.

The best I could come up with was, “But, but, you don’t love me.… In fact, you despise me. You’ve hated me since the day we met.”

She smiled sadly. “That’s what you thought?”

“Of course that’s what I thought. The whole choir thought so.”

A flash of tenderness brightened her face. “I can’t believe how stupid you can be,” she said.

The conversation went on for more than two hours. We left only when the waiter politely showed us the door. “Taxi?” Hanna preferred to walk. I walked her home, and …

But no. Let’s leave the rest for later.

Back at Our Place life went on: Shabbat meals and chance meetings, departures and arrivals, helios and goodbyes. As in Écouis and Ambloy, we talked about everything except the past. But it was the future that dominated our endless conversations: Learn a trade or go to school? Stay or go? The director did his best to help. His wise and silent wife did what she could, but we saw her only on Shabbat. Nicolas was studying for his
baccalauréat
. A great future in literature was predicted for him. Shimon they said had a great future too, but in science. Méno was interested in agronomy, Félix in biology. Israel Adler was already fascinated by Johann Sebastian Bach but not yet by Salomone Rossi. I was still undecided. Should I try to enroll in the Conservatory or the Liberal Arts college? I heard the call of the Holy Land, but felt I wasn’t ready yet. I was eighteen and living from day to day, unsure of what to do with my life and where to live it. I worked with François and with Shushani and read everything I could get my hands on. It’s funny, but before discovering Malraux, Camus, and Mauriac, I read
The Critique of Pure Reason
—don’t laugh!—in Yiddish. I read
Das Kapital
too, and Hegel and Spinoza. Philosophy monopolized me, devoured me. I irritated all my friends with my “serious” discussions. I was considered bizarre, not to mention boring. If I managed to work up the courage to talk to a girl in the garden or on the train, I would ask her about the meaning of life and the purpose of Creation. Did infinity exist? And nothingness? Is the soul immortal? What about God? I knew I was tiresome, that everyone laughed at me behind my back, that my interlocutors found me psychologically immature and socially maladjusted. They were right. “Look,” a beautiful member of the choir once said to me, “maybe absolute evil exists, but not absolute good or
absolute truth. What am I supposed to do about it?” I felt increasingly ill at ease. My body yearned for love, and I retaliated by punishing it. I became even stricter with my choir. I knew I was unbearable. Fortunately, I had my sisters. With them I had no need to play the fool.